Deep in the cold void of space, countless light-years from Earth's yellow sun, hung a world that defied its own insignificance.
Galvan Prime.
From orbit, it appeared as a pale jade sphere, its surface marred by what seemed to be a massive impact crater—though the scar was ancient, worn smooth by eons, ringed by a band of darker emerald that pulsed faintly with bioluminescent veins. The planet was small, laughably so by cosmic standards—barely larger than Earth's moon—yet its gravity held firm and familiar, a testament to the scientific mastery of those who called it home.
The Galvans had long ago conquered the limitations of their size. What they lacked in physical stature, they compensated for with intellect that burned white-hot, minds that could unravel the quantum foam of reality itself and stitch it back together in configurations that made gods weep with envy.
Their cities proved it.
Geometric towers rose in crystalline forests across the planet's single landmass, each structure a study in mathematical perfection—edges smoothed by intention rather than erosion, surfaces gleaming in blue-green hues that seemed to breathe with internal luminescence. Slitted windows glowed like watchful eyes. Golden light spilled from the seams where buildings layered atop one another, tier upon tier, creating the impression of a circuit board grown vast and alive. The streets below—metallic blue flooring that hummed with barely perceptible vibration—reflected the amber glow of streetlamps that never flickered, never failed.
The sky above was a perpetual dusk, dark orange bleeding into bruised purple at the edges, massive swirling clouds rotating in slow, hypnotic patterns like the eye of some cosmic storm frozen mid-blink. The air itself tasted faintly metallic, clean and sharp, breathable even to human lungs despite the alien chemistry.
But today, that sky had been swallowed.
A shadow fell across Galvan Prime, cold and absolute, blotting out the clouds and drowning the city's glow in sudden, oppressive darkness.
The ship was massive.
Not merely large—massive in a way that defied comprehension, in a way that made the mind rebel against the scale. It hung in low orbit like a malignant moon, all brutal angles and obsidian plating, its hull adorned with crimson circuitry that pulsed like exposed veins. The design spoke of conquest: spiked prow, blade-like wings that stretched for kilometers, weapon ports clustered like cancerous growths along its flanks. Exhaust vents breathed superheated plasma in rhythmic bursts, the glow painting the underside a hellish orange. The ship didn't orbit so much as loom, a predator savoring the moment before the kill.
Its origin was unknown. Its purpose was clear.
---
BOOM.
The explosion tore through a city block three kilometers from the planetary defense grid, vaporizing a tower in a sphere of white-hot plasma. The shockwave rolled outward, shattering windows, toppling smaller structures, sending debris tumbling through the metallic streets in a grinding avalanche of glass and steel. The sound arrived a heartbeat later—a deep, chest-crushing whump that rattled bones and set off a thousand alarms simultaneously.
In the shadow of the ruined tower, a figure dove behind a chunk of twisted rebar and smoking concrete, his orange skin slick with sweat and grime.
CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK.
Energy bolts screamed overhead, superheated green lances that punched through the rubble and left molten craters where they struck. The air reeked of ozone and scorched metal, hot enough to sear the lungs. Each blast hissed like a furious serpent, the sound sharp and venomous.
The figure pressed his back against the rock, chest heaving, ribs aching with each breath. His armor—a Plumber's standard-issue suit—clung to his frame like a second skin: black and gray composite plating reinforced with crimson accents along the seams, designed to flex with movement while deflecting small-arms fire. The chest bore the Plumber's insignia: a stylized disk, with an hourglass design, that's white around the edge and green in the middle , glowing faintly from the power cell embedded beneath. His right pauldron was cracked, leaking coolant in thin wisps of vapor. His left gauntlet sparked intermittently, the integrated energy shield generator fried beyond repair.
His helmet lay discarded three meters away, visor shattered, useless.
He didn't need it anyway.
His species—Tamaranean, the same proud lineage that had birthed warriors like Starfire—could breathe in virtually any atmosphere. Their biology was a gift from a sun-soaked world where survival meant adaptation or extinction. His lungs pulled in Galvan Prime's metallic air without complaint, though it tasted bitter, wrong, tainted with the acrid stench of warfare.
His name was Ky'rand. He'd been stationed on Galvan Prime for six months. Diplomatic escort. Light patrol duty. A milk run.
Now he was the last man standing in his squad.
Another explosion rocked the ground, closer this time, showering him in dust and pebbles that pattered against his armor like hail. The gunfire never stopped—a relentless staccato of energy weapons chewing through cover, reducing buildings to skeletal frames.
Ky'rand risked a glance around the rubble.
Mistake.
A bolt screamed past his head, so close the heat kissed his cheek and left a blistering welt. He jerked back, heart hammering, adrenaline flooding his system with liquid fire.
"Starro's eyes," he hissed, tasting copper and fear.
He hefted his rifle—a Plumber-standard plasma carbine, matte black with a glowing green power coil running the length of the barrel. The weapon was elegant, efficient, capable of punching through tank armor at three hundred meters. Right now, it felt like a child's toy.
He toggled his comm with trembling fingers, the implant in his jaw crackling to life with a burst of static.
"This is Ky'rand, Third Perimeter, Sector Seven!" His voice cracked, raw and desperate, barely audible over the roar of battle. "They've broken through the Frontline! I repeat, the Frontline has fallen! I'm pinned down, zero cover, zero support—where the hell is my backup?!"
The comm hissed. Silence. Then—
"—Ky'rand , fall back to—kzzt—ector Nine extraction—kzzt—minutes—"
The signal died in a wash of static.
"No, no, no—" Ky'rand slammed a fist against the rock, frustration boiling over. His knuckles split, blood welling up, hot and sticky against his skin, the pain sharp and immediate but utterly insignificant compared to the dread clawing at his chest.
The gunfire never stopped. CRACK-CRACK-CRACK. Energy bolts chewed through the air above him, a relentless symphony of death that made the rubble shudder with each impact. Dust rained down, gritty and choking, coating his tongue with the taste of pulverized stone and burnt ozone.
Ky'rand's jaw clenched, teeth grinding so hard his molars ached. His breath came fast and shallow, heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to escape. Fear wrapped cold fingers around his spine, whispering the truth he didn't want to hear: You're going to die here. Alone. Forgotten.
No.
The word blazed through his mind, fierce and defiant.
He thought of Ryven, his squad leader, who'd taken a direct hit shielding the evacuation shuttle. Of Mora, the rookie who'd cracked jokes until a drone's blade punched through her visor. Of Thax, who'd held the line until the ammunition ran dry and his hands did too.
They died fighting.
He would too—but not cowering behind a rock.
Ky'rand sucked in a breath, the metallic air searing his lungs, and surged to his feet.
His rifle came up, the barrel still hot enough to shimmer the air, power coil whining its last reserves. He squeezed the trigger.
CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.
Green bolts lanced out, and for the first time since the bombardment began, Ky'rand got a clear view of what was killing them.
Drones.
Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. They filled the shattered streets and choked the smoky sky, a tide of crimson and black that moved with mechanical precision, relentless as the grave.
The small drones came first—disc-shaped terrors no larger than dinner plates, sleek and blood-red, their surfaces etched with angular black circuitry that pulsed with malevolent light. They darted through the air like furious hornets, anti-gravity repulsors humming a high-pitched whine that set teeth on edge. Mounted beneath each disc was a single energy cannon, compact but vicious, spitting emerald bolts in rapid succession. They swarmed in packs, dozens at a time, coordinating their fire with inhuman efficiency. One alone was a nuisance. A hundred was a massacre.
Behind them came the big drones—walking tanks of burnished black metal and crimson plating, each one the size of a small transport vehicle. Their bodies were squat and angular, built like beetles, with heavily armored carapaces that shrugged off plasma fire like rain. Four thick legs carried them forward with grinding, mechanical strides that cracked the metallic streets beneath their weight. Twin heavy cannons jutted from their shoulders, barrels as thick as a man's torso, glowing with barely contained power. When they fired, the air itself screamed, and whatever they hit ceased to exist.
And woven between them, advancing with calculated menace, were the humanoid drones—bipedal war machines that stood eight feet tall, their frames lean and purpose-built for slaughter. Their armor was segmented, crimson and black plates overlapping like insect chitin, joints reinforced with exposed hydraulics that hissed with each movement. Their heads were featureless save for a single glowing optic sensor that swept the battlefield in cold, predatory arcs. Each carried a rifle—sleek, brutal things with glowing cores—and moved with a fluidity that mocked their mechanical nature. They flanked, they covered, they adapted. They were soldiers, and they were good at it.
Whoever commanded them wasn't holding back. This wasn't a raid. This was extermination.
Ky'rand's first shot caught a small drone mid-flight, vaporizing it in a burst of sparks and molten slag. His second clipped a humanoid's shoulder, spinning it around. His third punched through another disc, sending it spiraling into the rubble below.
WHOOM.
The air turned white.
One of the big drones had locked onto him. Its shoulder cannons flared, twin beams of superheated energy converging into a single, annihilating lance of light that roared toward him like the wrath of a dying star.
Ky'rand threw himself sideways, boots skidding on loose debris. The beam struck his cover dead-on.
The explosion was cataclysmic. Stone and metal vaporized instantly, the shockwave a physical punch that lifted Ky'rand off his feet and hurled him through the air. He hit the ground hard, shoulder first, bone-jarring agony shooting down his arm. His vision blurred, ears ringing so loud he couldn't hear his own gasps. Heat washed over him, blistering and savage, singeing the edges of his armor.
He rolled, instinct screaming, and scrambled behind the twisted skeleton of a fallen tower just as another volley of bolts chewed through the space where he'd been.
His rifle.
Ky'rand looked down.
The barrel was split open, power coil cracked and leaking luminescent green fluid that hissed and smoked against the hot metal. The weapon was dead. Useless.
His hands shook. His breath came in ragged, desperate gasps.
And then—slowly, inevitably—something else began to build.
Rage.
It started as a spark in his chest, hot and fierce, fed by every loss, every scream, every friend who'd died while he hid and ran. The spark became a flame. The flame became an inferno.
His squad had died fighting. They'd given everything—their blood, their breath, their futures—to buy seconds for the evacuation. To buy hope.
And Ky'rand would not let that mean nothing.
Blue energy flickered to life in his palms, crackling and wild, arcing between his fingers like captured lightning. Starbolts. The birthright of every Tamaranean warrior, fueled by emotion, by conviction, by the refusal to bow.
The glow intensified, bathing the rubble around him in electric azure light. His eyes blazed with the same fire, pupils vanishing in the radiance.
Ky'rand rose.
His armor was scorched. His body screamed in protest. His hands burned with barely contained power.
He didn't care.
He stepped out from behind cover, standing tall amid the carnage, and raised both hands toward the oncoming tide of drones.
"For Ryven," he whispered, voice raw. "For Mora. For Thax."
The starbolts roared to life, brilliant and terrible.
"For the Plumbers."
And he charged.
---
Back on Earth, the morning sun had climbed higher, baking the sidewalk and turning the metal bench into a griddle. Sweat prickled at the back of Ben's neck, sticky and uncomfortable beneath his beanie. He'd given up on the Game Boy twenty minutes ago, the screen too washed out in the glare to see anything, and now sat slumped with his backpack between his knees, one shoe scuffing lazy circles in the dust.
Gwen had abandoned her book too, though she'd never admit defeat. The paperback lay closed on her lap, one finger marking her place, while she stared down the empty street with the kind of focus usually reserved for pop quizzes she hadn't studied for. Her jaw was tight, a small muscle jumping near her temple—the only crack in her perfectly composed facade.
Kevin had his head tilted back, eyes half-closed, soaking in the heat like a lizard on a rock. To anyone else, he looked bored. Ben knew better. Kevin's fingers drummed a slow, irregular rhythm against his thigh, a tell he'd had since they were seven. Kevin was thinking. Or worrying. Sometimes both.
The digital clock on the bank billboard across the street blinked over to 8:06 AM.
"Okay, seriously," Ben muttered, breaking the silence. "Did the bus driver just forget we exist?"
"Or die," Kevin offered without opening his eyes.
Gwen shot him a look. "That's not funny."
"Wasn't trying to be."
Before Gwen could fire back, a familiar diesel rumble rolled down the street, deep and rattling, accompanied by the hiss of air brakes. All three heads snapped toward the sound.
The school bus—faded yellow paint, black stripes, windows tinted just enough to hide the chaos inside—lurched around the corner and groaned to a stop in front of them. The doors folded open with a hydraulic shunk, releasing a breath of stale, recycled air that smelled of old vinyl seats and something vaguely fruity (probably spilled juice from last week).
The driver, a middle-aged man with a graying beard and a Metropolis Meteors cap pulled low, leaned forward, one hand still on the wheel. His expression was apologetic, tired, the look of someone who'd already had a long day and it wasn't even nine yet.
"Sorry, kids," he called, voice rough like he'd been shouting over engine noise for hours. "Bus got delayed. Fire downtown—had every vehicle on lockdown until they cleared the area." He scratched his jaw, shaking his head. "Lucky Superman showed up when he did. Put the whole thing out in minutes. City would've burned otherwise."
Ben's eyes lit up, a grin splitting his face. "See? Told you he'd handle it."
Kevin rolled his eyes but didn't argue. Gwen just sighed, hoisting her backpack with both hands and climbing the steps with the careful precision of someone who refused to look hurried even when she absolutely was.
Ben followed, bouncing up the stairs two at a time, energy flooding back now that they were finally moving. Kevin brought up the rear, hands still buried in his hoodie pockets, slouching like gravity affected him twice as hard as everyone else.
The driver pulled the lever, the doors hissed shut, and the bus lurched forward with a belch of exhaust and the grind of old gears. The world outside the windows began to slide past—houses, trees, the corner store where they bought candy on Fridays—all of it familiar, safe, ordinary.
Ben dropped into a seat near the middle, Gwen sliding in across the aisle, Kevin claiming the spot behind Ben and immediately sprawling like he owned three seats. The bus rumbled on, carrying them toward another day, another argument, another small piece of the life they thought they understood.
---
Back on the war-torn planet of Galvan Prime, smoke curled lazily from the shattered husks of drones scattered across the battlefield like the discarded toys of a vengeful child. Crimson plating lay cracked and scorched, circuitry sparking weakly, optic sensors dark and lifeless. The metallic street was a graveyard, littered with the broken bodies of the invading army—small discs crushed into twisted scrap, humanoid frames bent at impossible angles, one of the big drones collapsed on its side, legs twitching uselessly as its power core sputtered its last.
Dozens. Maybe a hundred. All dead.
And in the center of the carnage, slumped against a jagged chunk of rubble, sat Ky'rand.
His armor was shredded, the black-and-gray plating cracked open in a dozen places, exposing burnt orange skin beneath. Blood—vivid and alien-bright—seeped from a gash across his ribs, staining the ground beneath him in slow, rhythmic pulses. His right arm hung limp, shoulder dislocated, fingers still twitching faintly as if searching for a weapon that was no longer there. His left hand pressed weakly against his side, trying and failing to stem the bleeding.
His breaths came shallow and ragged, each one a knife in his chest. His vision swam, the world tilting and blurring at the edges, colors bleeding together like wet paint.
But even through the haze, even through the agony that sang in every nerve, Ky'rand felt something close to pride.
He'd taken so many of them with him. His starbolts had carved through their ranks like a storm, blue fire incinerating drones mid-flight, melting armor, shattering cores. He'd fought like his ancestors—like the warriors of Tamaran who'd held the line against empires and never, ever knelt.
Is this how it ends? he thought, the words drifting through his mind like smoke. Bleeding out on an alien world, surrounded by the corpses of machines?
It wasn't the death he'd imagined. But it wasn't a bad one either.
He closed his eyes, just for a moment, letting the pain recede into something distant and tolerable. The sound of his own heartbeat filled his ears, slow and unsteady, each thump a little weaker than the last.
And then—
WHIRRRRR.
His eyes snapped open.
The mechanical hum was unmistakable. Repulsors. Targeting systems coming online. The grinding march of metal feet against broken pavement.
More drones.
Ky'rand's stomach dropped, cold and leaden. He tried to push himself upright, but his body refused, muscles limp and unresponsive. His starbolts flickered weakly in his palm—a pathetic spark, barely brighter than a candle—before sputtering out entirely.
Nothing left. No strength. No fight.
The drones rounded the corner, a fresh wave of crimson and black, optics glowing with cold, predatory intent. They moved in formation, methodical and patient, knowing their prey was already dead.
Ky'rand's lips pulled back in a snarl, defiant even now, even at the end. If he was going down, he'd go down spitting.
BOOM.
The lead drone exploded in a sphere of emerald light, so bright it seared afterimages into Ky'rand's vision. The shockwave sent the others stumbling, sensors screaming in electronic confusion.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
Green energy rained from the sky like the wrath of forgotten gods, each blast precise and devastating, punching through armor, obliterating cores, reducing the mysterious invader's machines to smoking scrap in seconds. The air crackled with power, the smell of ozone sharp and electric, drowning out the stench of blood and burnt metal.
Ky'rand stared, mouth open, unable to process what he was seeing.
The sky above him had turned green.
Dozens of figures descended, each one wreathed in brilliant emerald light that pulsed and shimmered like living aurora. They moved with purpose, with grace, energy constructs blazing to life around them—cannons, shields, blades—each one a weapon forged from willpower itself.
The Green Lantern Corps.
They swept through the remaining drones like a scythe through wheat, coordinated and merciless. A towering, four-armed insectoid Lantern with chitinous purple plating materialized a massive hammer construct and brought it down on a big drone, flattening it into the pavement with a sound like a thunderclap. A sleek, blue-scaled serpentine being coiled through the air, firing precise beams from twin ring-generated rifles, each shot punching clean through humanoid drone chassis. A stocky, rock-like creature—skin gray and craggy like living stone—raised a shield construct the size of a building, deflecting a volley of enemy fire before retaliating with a barrage of emerald spikes that skewered three drones at once.
The battlefield transformed in seconds. What had been a killing field became a graveyard.
One of the Lanterns—a lean, crimson-skinned humanoid with four golden eyes and vestigial wings folded against his back—broke formation and descended toward Ky'rand. His ring cast a soft, soothing glow, washing over the Tamaranean like warm sunlight.
He landed softly, boots touching down without a sound, and knelt beside Kaelor, one hand outstretched in a gesture of peace.
"Be at ease, friend," the Lantern said, his voice calm and steady, carrying the weight of authority and something gentler—compassion. His accent was strange, melodic, vowels stretched in ways no human tongue could replicate. "The Green Lantern Corps has arrived. You've fought well. Rest now."
Ky'rand tried to speak, to ask a hundred questions, but his throat was too dry, his tongue too heavy. All he managed was a weak nod, his head lolling back against the rubble.
The Lantern's ring flared, bathing Ky'rand in emerald light. The pain began to recede, just a little, replaced by warmth and the faint, distant sensation of healing.
Above them, the battle raged on—but for the first time since the bombardment began, Ky'rand allowed himself to believe.
Maybe this wasn't the end after all.